


to sink his teeth in

by oopshidaisy



Series: built a fire in our mind [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Soul Bond, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopshidaisy/pseuds/oopshidaisy
Summary: Companion to 'that one last tender place'. Loki's POV.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Series: built a fire in our mind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177517
Comments: 26
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> in the tradition of such literary greats as stephenie meyer and e.l. james, here's a rewrite of my story from the love interest's perspective. but there are - as always - a few notes before we get started.
> 
> since both tony and loki are amazingly adept at lying to themselves, neither version of this fic is untainted by unreliable narration. maybe one day i'll write a third version with an omniscient narrator who goes 'even though loki thinks he's leaving earth out of boredom, he's actually doing it because he's starting to feel bad about the whole attempted invasion thing'. but for now, you get this. 
> 
> i'd like to think that both fics can stand alone, so you don't necessarily have to have read (or be up-to-date with) 'that one last tender place' to understand this one. the original fic will continue to be the only one with a regular update schedule, though.
> 
> title is a continuation of the line i used for the original fic, which is from richard siken's 'wishbone'. the full line goes 'did he find that one last tender place to / sink his teeth in?' (fun how when i first used a decontextualised snippet i made it seem more romantic, and now i'm bringing it right back around to centre the way intimacy can feel violent.) the title of the series is an altered lyric from the front bottoms' 'everyone but you'.
> 
> and finally, a huge thanks to alyx, who kicked this all off by saying 'the more I read/you talk about your fic the more I want a midnight sun of it'. they sent that message that on the 20th november, so you have to admire their patience.

‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have that drink now,’ he says, and the man smiles, surrounded by the wreckage of his home and his city, he _smiles_ , and Loki thinks, _this one is different._

Not that it matters.

*

He is sentenced to life in prison, which is to say eternity in prison, which is to say no time at all in prison because his escape is as inevitable as the tide.

Briefly, he considers not going through with the charade. It seems he’s always moving, falling, escaping—it would be different, at least, to remain still for a time. His mother might visit him: a captive but still her son, or not her son but still someone she loved for a time.

He waits for days, and receives no visitors.

And then he makes his escape.

*

The universe is vast. He finds himself shunned to its corners, scurrying from planet to planet, leaving whenever he hears whispers of the one who had unmade him. _Thanos. The Mad Titan._ His name spreads like a sickness, coated in dread no matter whose lips it passes.

Like Loki, the Titan has the luxury of time. He indulges in it; each failure is no more than a temporary inconvenience. What need is there to rush when he knows he will become master of time with no more than a small green stone? Loki’s saving grace is his pursuer’s complacency. The Titan will have his revenge tomorrow, or in ten thousand years: it is all the same to him.

They say it is impossible to kill a god; Loki does not know if he truly is one, and would rather not find out.

*

Anywhere in the universe, and he chooses Midgard to haunt. It does not make sense, not even to himself. It is the most insignificant of realms, its people ignorant and infuriating. Their actions were incomprehensible when he was under the Sceptre’s thrall, and they are yet less explicable in the aftermath. Why sacrifice so much when it would be simpler by far to submit? He had expected Thor’s resistance, but the insects who crawled on the surface of that globe? They should have longed to be ruled, longed for an end to their petty squabbling. They should have longed for Loki.

And perhaps he would have been accepted, would finally have proven his worth as a conqueror of worlds, had it not been for the Avengers.

He dismisses the one he had kept as a pet under his command, and the soldier from another time: neither interest him. They are soldiers, through and through, if not awaiting commands then craving them. It had made the Hawk easy to control; Loki imagines the Captain must have been the same.

The Beast is the one Loki most fears encountering again. The pain of the defeat by the monster’s hands had faded easily, as all pains do for him, but the humiliation had not. And yet the creature’s mind is even less consequential than the others’: it contains naught but one emotion, one desire. A simpleton in the most literal sense of the word, even if a strong one.

The one he had thought to be his brother for so long—doubtless, there is more to him than there once was: a temperance and clarity that had been absent for the thousand years of his childhood and adolescence. The arrogance remains, but Loki knows well that arrogance does not preclude one from being King. He cannot say whether he hopes to see Thor again. He had thought the ties between them were severed by Thor’s banishment to Midgard and his own brief ascension to the throne. He had thought Thor would finally give in to their destiny—that they must always be at one another’s throats, clashing endlessly without final victory or defeat. But Thor did not want to fight him. He had done it, unwilling, only to save his favoured world. He refuses to see Loki as his enemy. It is as confounding as it is discomfiting.

Finally, there are the ones who had defeated his army. The Spider and the Defender. The Spider had surprised him with her cunning, her ability to lie that matched his own. Her determination and pragmatism had made her—so small, so easily overlooked—the one who had closed his portal.

He thinks about the Defender more than he cares to admit. The one who erected a monument in his name and yet did not rule. The one whose mind was impervious to the stone’s control, who stood close enough for Loki to touch, unprotected by his iron, and did not bow. The one who just wouldn’t die, no matter how cavalierly he courted death.

Stark may have called himself an Avenger, but Loki knows the truth: he is the Protector of the Earth.

*

So it is to Earth Loki returns.

He does not show himself at first. It is quietly thrilling, to walk amongst the herd of humans as they amble their way through the wreckage of their city. He disguises himself as all manner of person: men, women, children, and everything in between. He strikes up conversations. He eats Midgardian food. He scurries underneath their feet as a rat, a squirrel, a pigeon.

The people are worse than he’d ever thought. They are filthy, and rude, and loud; their downtrodden are treated more wretchedly than a soul on Asgard ever would be—even prisoners are afforded more respect, as Loki well knows.

And yet they are better, also. They find joy in insignificances; they laugh easily, and they make the most ridiculous foods and drinks, with the most obnoxious flavours. Loki thinks he could study them for a thousand years and never tire of it.

*

He leaves after a week. Boredom, he supposes, rearing its head the way it always does. What other explanation is there?

He has tried all manner of foods, has seen all manner of humans, and he has visited the memorial for what they call the Battle of New York. He had been a young woman when he looked upon it, and had been offered a handkerchief by a small human with age-creased skin.

‘Why?’ he asked, taking the fabric in his delicate hand.

‘My dear, you’re crying,’ said the woman.

He touched the cloth to his eyes, one by one. It came back wet.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

The woman nodded. ‘It was my grandson,’ she said, an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. ‘He was always such a brave boy. And he called me that day, wanted to make sure I was safe, that I’d been evacuated alright. I told him he needed to leave, too, that there was nothing he could do when there were aliens falling from the sky. But that was my Jacob. Three years into his firefighting training—he was going to be finished in the spring.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Loki managed to say. It was a phrase he’d heard the humans say to one another; it had seemed meaningless to him until then.

‘And you, dear?’ the woman asked. ‘If you don’t mind me asking: who did you lose?’

It would have been easy to lie.

‘Myself,’ Loki said.

*

He does not make a habit of feeling sorry: he was never taught to.

*

He stays away from Midgard for only a few days. What he wants, he realises, is to be seen once more. All this hiding, all this running—it is contrary to who he is. He has always preferred to put on a show.

There is nowhere in the Nine Realms he can safely show his face, and yet Odin cares so little for Midgard that he cannot imagine retribution for re-emerging there. The Titan, too, had been reluctant to waste his energy on such a place. Loki knows he will come eventually, for the stone that Loki had allowed to fall from his grasp, but Loki half-doubts it will be within the lifetimes of anyone alive on that planet. Thanos prefers conquests of honour, of glory. He considers the Earth beneath him. He’d sent Loki in his stead, and it was an order that was intended to degrade—Loki had known it then, even as he longed to rule _somewhere_ , and he sees it yet more clearly now.

Either Thanos underestimates this Earth, or Loki is even more of a failure than he knows how to reckon with. Either way, it bears further investigation. Further infiltration.

Loki chooses his stage and steps forth from the shadows.

‘People of Earth,’ he says, and he adjusts the spell that produces duplicates of himself so that those copies appear on the screens that tower high over the populace. His voice is preternaturally loud, making the tourists thronged below turn to look. Some start running. Others laugh, as though he is playing a joke. One woman screams, ‘fuck you!’ with eyes and words glazed by some intoxicant.

He continues: ‘Perhaps you remember me.’

He could kill them. He could decimate this entire gaudy attraction, raze it to the ground. He thinks it might be satisfying to do so, to stand in the ruins and greet the Avengers thus. But he knows they will come either way; there is nothing he need do except wait.

They do not keep him waiting long.

By the time they arrive, Loki has said all he intended: he has reminded the humans that he is still alive, still able to walk their lands—undetected, if he so chooses, or as bold as he is now. So he sits, with only a few foolish spectators remaining. They film him with their handheld devices, or they merely gawp stupidly, unaware of or unconcerned by the fact that he could kill them with a flick of his hand.

The ranks of the Avengers are depleted for the occasion: Thor is, evidently, elsewhere, and they have not unleashed the Beast.

It is the Defender who swoops in first, although he is quickly followed by the Captain and the spies. The unarmoured ones busy themselves with the congregated humans, but Stark flies directly towards him, stopping to hover close by. Loki doesn’t bother to rise to his feet; he likes the thought of disrespecting this counterfeit prince.

The cocoon of metal parts to reveal Stark’s face.

‘You’re back.’

For the briefest of seconds, Loki doesn’t know how to respond, unarmed by the Defender’s latest demonstration of how little his own safety means to him. Absurdly, something protective surges through Loki at the sight—surely a remnant from his childhood. Thor had been similarly reckless, and Loki had been unable to do more than watch and disapprove.

None of this shows on his face, of course. To Stark, he is smiling, unconcerned. Confident to the point of arrogance.

‘And _you_ are more resilient than I expected,’ he says. Stark’s mouth twitches.

‘That’s me. I have it on good authority that I’m annoyingly hard to kill.’ Stark probably thinks he’s being charming; he doesn’t realise Loki can see the hard focus of his eyes, can follow their scan of Loki’s body. Checking for weapons, naturally. The rest of Stark’s face is a passable facsimile of relaxation, but Loki _earned_ the title God of Lies. It’s not just that he’s good at doing it himself.

‘How interesting,’ says Loki. ‘I’ve been told the same.’

Something sparks in the Defender’s expression, and all at once he’s not pretending. He’s looking at Loki like he approves, even if only of his quick wit.

‘Asgard’s prison system not suiting you?’ Stark asks. Loki notes how well he controls the suit, to keep it almost perfectly still in the air like that. The strain of it is nowhere to be seen in his face.

Studying Stark’s face has been his undoing before: it was this same focus that allowed the man to out-manoeuvre him during their confrontation in the Tower. If Loki had been watching his hands, he might have spotted the technology that saved Stark’s life.

He doesn’t regret the mistake that led to Stark’s continued survival, but he knows that someone who outwitted him once is likely to do so again, given the time and opportunity. It is high time for Loki to make his departure.

Before he goes, he says: ‘I am destined for greater things than captivity. We shall be seeing more of one another, Man of Iron.’

He knows Stark’s preferred sobriquet, and takes pleasure in misusing it.

The last thing he sees before he leaves is the beginning of a confused frown on the Defender’s face, as though he’s unsure whether to take Loki’s words as a slight. It is not an expression that suits him and yet it remains, indelible, in Loki’s mind’s eye as he materializes on a London street. He becomes a tall woman with raven black hair, emeralds winking in the dip of his pale throat.

The humans would see him, if they only knew how to look.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Come on, Pin-Loki-o. Come and get me,’ the Defender sing-songs, always just out of reach. There is an undeniable grace to the way he flies, as though he was born to do it—even though that’s impossible. Humans are made for the mud, not the stars. If the Defender looks _right_ , framed by the wide-open night sky, it is merely by comparison to the others with whom he shares a planet. A few months on this mud-heap, and Loki has clearly forgotten what real power—real beauty—looks like.

Loki retains his foothold on the edge of the high building, paying no mind to his opponent’s goading. If Stark would just _stay still_ , he could—

There it is, the crux of his bind. Given the opening, what would he do? He likes their game too much to kill the human. He enjoys knowing that no matter where he springs up in the world, no matter what time, the Defender arrives in no more than a handful of hours, the speed of his invention making distance an easily surmountable obstacle. Sometimes he brings his merry band of Avengers with him. Once or twice, he’s come alone.

Today is one of those times.

‘I’ve always wanted to come back to Tokyo,’ Stark tells him, as though they are in conversation. ‘Last time I was here was for a weapons conference. There I was, jetlagged _and_ hungover, and when I finally got to my hotel room Obadiah had hired some poor girl to wait for me.’ He’s flying in dizzying circles, but his voice is unaffected. ‘I told her I’d pay her double if she managed to get me some sleeping pills from somewhere.’

‘And then you took her?’ Loki asks, his attention less on the story and more on any gaps in the armour that might be susceptible to magic. By all rights, there should be some: Stark couldn’t possibly have the knowledge required to ward himself against magical attacks. But it’s been months, now, and Loki has not, yet, been able to find any.

‘Christ, no.’ The sound of the Defender’s laugh is altered by his armor. Loki wonders what it would sound like without the barrier of Earth technology. ‘I slept for twenty-seven hours and missed the conference.’

‘Of course,’ Loki responds. He’s safe enough for this idle chit-chat; Stark never breaks out the full capabilities of his armor in civilian centres. It is one of the many traits which make him easy to manipulate. ‘You are as indolent as the rest of your species.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Stark replies, swinging in a high loop that forces Loki’s gaze upwards, ‘I could pilot this thing in my sleep. No effort required.’

For not the first time, Loki considers the impossible: the armor _is_ enchanted—or at least warded from attack. If only the Defender would cease his evasion and allow Loki to test the full reach of his influence over the casement of metal. Were it ordinary iron, Loki would be able to manipulate it as easily as a child plays with sand: he could crush its occupant in its confines, or peel each plate away, one-by-one, until Stark lay before him, bare and defenceless.

It is not iron, though. It is something else, something that thwarts Loki at every turn.

As if to verify his thoughts, one of those infuriating beams of light comes hurtling through the air; Loki doesn’t manage to dodge in time, and his shoulder takes the brunt of the assault. He hisses, less with pain and more with frustration.

‘Score one for Stark!’ the Iron Man crows. ‘So, where’s next on the world tour? You’ve already popped up in the Americas, Europe, Africa, Asia—maybe you should try Antarctica?’

He chortles at his own joke, as careless and arrogant as if Loki were a mere human opponent. There is no way for him to know that Loki _has_ been to the frozen wasteland the humans call Antarctica, has stood in its icy embrace and let his skin turn blue—has tried to imagine what his life might have been, had he never been taken from the frozen location of his birth.

Loki lashes out with a spell that is intended to accelerate aging: perhaps he can make the metal rust?

‘What was that?’ Stark asks, arrested in his flight for less than a second. The armor loses none of its lustre.

Next, Loki summons two thick, black ropes, which emerge from each of his hands and seek the ankles of the vibrant armour. One finds its target, but Stark simply swings himself head-over-heels and blasts the rope in two using one of the glowing orbs that adorn his palms.

‘It’s like you’re not even trying,’ the Defender says. ‘Be honest: you just want to spend time with me. You know, I’d be willing to get coffee sometime. Saves me having to put on the suit.’

Loki scoffs. ‘I have encountered Rock Trolls who make for better company than you.’

‘Harsh,’ Stark says. ‘I mean, I don’t know what a Rock Troll _is_ , but it seems like you were trying to be mean. Hey, head’s up!’

The warning is inexplicable; it gives Loki ample time to shield himself from the beam of the armour’s central orb. It’s as though they _are_ children, playing a game.

‘Do you have an actual goal here?’ Stark continues, taking the setback in his stride. ‘Wait, let me rephrase. Are you planning to decimate Japan, or did I suit up at seven in the morning for nothing? I know it’s evening here, but I’ve gotta clue you in on this little thing called _time zones_ —'

‘I could crush everyone in this city, in this _country_ , were I so inclined,’ Loki interrupts harshly. 

‘Yeah, but you’re not going to,’ Stark says. ‘You keep hanging around like this, we’re going to start thinking you _like_ us.’

And just like that the fun is gone. The moment the words sink in, Loki takes a running leap off the roof of the skyscraper and teleports before he even begins to fall.

He still hears the Defender’s parting words: ‘Was it something I said?’

*

He feels weak, foolish.

*

Of all the enemies he’d considered when he’d chosen Earth as his adopted home, he had forgotten Amora.

If he were given to sentimentality, he might consider that it is because he has never managed to stop thinking of her as his one and only ally during childhood, the other magical freak who skittered around the halls of Asgard’s palace. When they were alone, other children had laughed at them, but when they were together no one dared. One magical being could be overpowered with force—Thor had proven that often enough—but two were unpredictable. Dangerous.

That was how Loki had discovered that he liked being dangerous.

But she had done the unforgivable, and he had attempted to punish her for it. He had thought his retribution fitting enough, but humiliation had banished whatever affection she had held for him, replaced it with pure rage.

And his elopement to Earth has given her the perfect opportunity to strike.

Amora’s magic is connected to feelings—on bending them to her will—and she thrives wherever emotions are felt strongly. On Asgard, she is a skilled practitioner of magic; on Earth, she is power incarnate.

Such is the beautiful imprecision of the magical arts. Loki thrives on chaos, something not exactly lacking on Midgard, but as soon as he sees _her_ , he knows there is no way to prepare for what’s to come.

*

When the Avengers arrive, Loki’s first feeling is of relief. He is too weak to face her alone, and the flash of bright, shining red against the snow makes him think—

Makes him think he might be safe.

It is foolish; although Stark’s armor possesses some mysterious quality that makes it a relatively effective shield against magic, he has not yet faced Amora at the height of her power. For that matter, he has not yet had to hold his own against a magic-user who does not care whether he lives or dies.

Within minutes, it becomes clear that Amora’s magic _can_ penetrate the armor, if only when her full power is projected towards it. It’s the helmet, Loki realises, those two dark lines that separate the faceplate from the rest. That’s how she’s getting through.

It is not of his concern. If the Defender’s shoddy craftsmanship leads to his demise, Loki can hardly be blamed; he had not, after all, taken advantage of the opening himself. He has always been too focused on the armor’s power source: that radiant light in its centre. Even seeing his mistake, now, he does not regret making it. The armor’s heart is fascinating, and someday Loki will figure out how to extinguish its light.

If he lives another day, that is.

Amora knows him too well. So much of his magic is based on trickery, and she knows all the tricks. There isn’t anything he can fool her with, and so he is forced to meet her on her terms, using offensive magic that has always felt crude in his hands.

The wind whips his hair into his eyes and the heat of Amora’s magic scores along his arms, leaving blisters in its wake. He manages not to cry out, not to react in any way she could perceive, but the pain threatens to send him falling from the cliff’s ledge upon which he stands.

That is when Stark attempts to engage him in one of their _conversations_.

‘Loki, what in fuck’s name is going on?’

At least the Defender recognises the seriousness of the situation; he would not address Loki by his true name otherwise. He is still too much of a distraction to bear.

‘This does not concern you, mortal,’ Loki snaps. He is trying to concentrate both on shielding himself and attacking his opponents, and the split focus is like a splinter in his mind. Stark is merely another distraction to contend with.

Amora is levitating in the air—and her smug smile says that she knows he has not mastered flight in the years of their estrangement. She has never been able to resist one-upmanship.

But then, Loki has never been able to bear being outdone, either.

Thor seems unable to choose which one of them he wants to subdue first, and his damnable hammer is yet another weapon to be avoided in this battle. Loki is throwing every curse he knows at the both of them, but his legs are shaking and he knows that the physical weakness is a manifestation of the ineffectiveness of his magic.

A curse that should have reduced Amora to dust does little more than singe her hair.

A spell that should have frozen Thor in place only slows him down for a minute.

And then Stark is closer, hovering to Loki’s left and not even bothering to use the arsenal of weapons on his person.

‘I think you’re losing.’

The Beast has temporarily waylaid Amora, although she is able to fly out of his reach and will not be fully subdued by him, the way Loki was.

Stark takes Loki’s silence as permission to keep talking.

‘You better be planning something smart, Loki-dokie. I wouldn’t put money on you right now, and I’ve got plenty to spare.’

‘ _Quiet_.’

Loki is intelligent enough to know he’s losing, but not enough to come up with a plan to reverse his fortune. He does not think Amora will be able to kill him, but she might well incapacitate him and drop him at his father’s feet, using his capture as an exchange for an end to her own banishment. Or she could take him as a prisoner for herself and drag out his torture for centuries, until he could only wish that he was easier to kill.

Although neither of those options quite sound like her. He wonders if she has something else lying in wait for him.

Making him fall in love with her would be gauche, a repetition of a trick, and unreliable besides. Loki is not Thor: he would not remain under her influence for so long.

But if not that, what?

The Defender flies yet closer, as though he has nothing to fear—and perhaps he doesn’t, with Loki’s attention so thoroughly split.

He prattles on: ‘Just give me a—’ And the sound of his voice cuts out as Amora casts enchanted flames at the suit. For a moment, Loki thinks he will perish in the fiery embrace; Amora’s magical fire is not known for leaving survivors. But he has forgotten about the protection Stark has somehow, ignorantly, cloaked himself in. ‘— _hint_ , Loki. Jesus,’ the man finishes, as though the interruption is little more than an inconvenience.

For a moment, Loki is _jealous_.

‘And why should I?’ he says, all while shooting destructive bolts in Amora’s direction. ‘What concern is it of yours, Tin Man?’

Amora is dodging his magic, but for the first time she appears off her guard. His desperation is dredging up his reserves of energy—although for how long, he cannot say.

Stark, meanwhile, is _still speaking._

‘Okay, first: do they even _have_ tin on Asgard? Like, how do you _know_ that’s an insult? Is this an Allspeak thing?’ _No_ , Loki thinks derisively. He knows, by now, how to speak the language of the mortals and employ their colloquialisms. ‘Oh, and second: you’re damn right it’s my business. You wanna have catfights in my back yard, you do me the goddamn decency of telling me what they’re about.’

Loki has only heard that intensity in the Defender’s tone once before. Unbidden, his head turns in his direction.

So, in the end, it is Stark’s fault. He is the one who gives Amora the chance to take her revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment i came up with pin-loki-o was the highlight of my career


End file.
